All talk, no action

Five minutes into the Rocklin Park Hotel’s poolside VIP Players’ Party for the Playboy Golf Scramble, a man propped a shiny black placard with the magazine’s trademark rabbit logo against the DJ booth. “Notice!” the sign read. “Your visit may be recorded and used for editorial, advertising, art, promotion, or for any other lawful purpose whatsoever in any and all media, electronic and otherwise, now known or hereafter invented without restrictions. Thank you!”

Most of the golfers were too busy chatting up the attendant bevy of tan women with pneumatic breasts and blond highlights to notice the sign, but the few who did looked around carefully. There were no video cameras in sight, but two ladies had already hopped into the hot tub, while men in Dockers and sandals ringed the edge like eager lemmings. The sign’s sudden presence suggested something worth recording was likely to happen.

A promotional representative for St. Pauli Girl tottered around the patio in strappy heels and a mini-skirted version of a Bavarian bar-wench costume, dispensing plastic key chains and dutifully pressuring anyone without a cup in hand. “Why don’t you guys drink a beer?” she wheedled. “St. Pauli Girl is a really good beer.”

St. Pauli Girl is a really good beer—for spilling on people. Fifteen minutes into the party, a group of golfers, while enthusiastically recounting their adventures at a Spearmint Rhino Gentlemen’s Club, managed to slosh theirs down their polo shirts and onto nearby partygoers. “What happens on tour stays on tour!” they yelled, undaunted.

Playboy promised both Playboy Bunnies and local “girls of golf” at this party, but it was tough to figure out which of the women in attendance fell into either camp. None wore bunny ears, and none looked particularly athletic in tube dresses and stilettos. Only one was clearly identified: Stacy Fuson, this year’s St. Pauli Girl and the party’s official Playmate hostess. The DJ asked her to say a few words. “Um, I just want to say this is going to be a really fun event—and drink a lot of St. Pauli Girl,” she said matter-of-factly before handing back the mic.

“Dude, I’m gonna go get my picture taken with her,” said one of the Spearmint Rhino men, clearly smitten. “Hold my beer.”

The party’s beer-sponsored theme had been established, but had the party? The guests moved into the banquet room, where a DJ played R&B hits from the 1980s. The most drunken people hit the dance floor, and the rest stood around with drinks, making small talk.

Hours later, the scene was unchanged. Men with beer-induced swaggers tried to charm women who smiled wearily while shifting their weight from one stiletto-cramped arch to the other. A final stroll past the hot tubs revealed only an empty patio and a stack of clean towels, confirming the poolside wisdom dispensed earlier: Whatever happened on tour did stay on tour, because it certainly wasn’t here.